


Unarmored

by uistic



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: BDSM, Caning, Multi, Sub Roman, Teambuilding, Top Dean, Top Seth, Trust exercises, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9427019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uistic/pseuds/uistic
Summary: Roman had no idea this was a thing he wanted and now he wants it so bad he's afraid he'll spend the rest of his life chasing this feeling, whatever it is. He wants it to last forever and he wants it to be over now, so he can sneak off to the bathroom and release the pressure that's been building ever since Seth looked him in the eyes and said "I want to whip you" like that's a thing you cansay, Jesus Christ.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so remember Payback 2014? The Shield vs Evolution? Because I saw that like ten months ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. This is pure self-serving smut that takes place sometime in the early Shield days, but be warned: if you're here for sex, you'll be disappointed.

The afternoon sun shines in through the window, warming the parquet where Roman kneels bent over the couch, arms stretched out before him. Dean’s on the floor too, his hands resting on Roman's wrist, not holding him down yet, just a warm, solid weight while they’re waiting for Seth to get ready. There are specks of dust swirling in the sunlit air and Roman watches their dance as Seth moves behind him, laying out the tools he intends to use. Better that, than to have to look Dean in the eyes and run the risk of letting him see something he shouldn’t.

There’s music playing softly on the stereo, something surprisingly mellow compared to the noisy, screamy stuff Seth normally prefers, and if Roman had ever bothered imagining this scene - which he hasn’t, why would he? - he’d have placed it anywhere but here, anytime but now. It’s a scene for late nights, darkened hallways and rough concrete floors, not the easy domesticity of Seth’s living room, with its comfy couch, flat screen tv, and neat bookshelves filled with novels, wrestling DVDs and video games. 

He can’t believe he agreed to this and he can’t quite remember how it happened. Except Seth has a way of getting what he wants, even when what he wants is completely fucking crazy. He's the kind of person who can say stuff like ”teambuilding” and ”trust exercises” with a straight face while revealing a whole fucking closet filled with the kind of things Roman didn’t think existed outside of hardcore porn.

He probably shouldn't like this. Probably shouldn't be rock hard and lightheaded at the thought of being held down and hurt by his teammates. _Jesus_. His tongue is dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth, and his palms feel clammy as Dean finally grabs his wrists, pressing them against the soft cushions.

"This all right?" he asks, searching for Roman's gaze.

Roman had no idea this was a thing he wanted and now he wants it so bad he's afraid he'll spend the rest of his life chasing this feeling, whatever it is. He wants it to last forever and he wants it to be over now, so he can sneak off to the bathroom and release the pressure that's been building ever since Seth looked him in the eyes and said "I want to whip you" like that's a thing you can _say_ , Jesus Christ.

Taking one for the team, he tells himself. They don't have to know. He's kneeling, bent over, they can't see his dick pressing against the seam of his jeans or the goddamned wet spot on his boxers, and the flush on his cheeks could be anything. He looks at Dean, then has to look away, because Dean wouldn't touch him like this if he knew. 

"Yeah," Roman says, a little too hoarse. "It's fine."

"You sure, man? We don't have to- I mean, it's a crazy fucking idea, we don't have to prove shit." Dean is still keeping him pinned, though, hands strong and sure, equal parts restraining and reassuring. The sun hits his shoulder and arm, lining the curve of the shoulder in gold, and Roman can't believe he never noticed how beautiful Dean is.

"No, it's-” Roman clears his throat, tries not to think about how vulnerable he feels, how strange this has to look. ”Good. It’s good.”

”Let’s start with ten,” Seth says, from somewhere behind him. His voice is calm, assured, impartial, and it sends a tingle down Roman’s spine. He can’t tell if he’s scared or excited and neither seems really appropriate here, he’s a wrestler, for God’s sake, taking a beating is what he does professionally five nights a week. ”You remember the rules?”

Roman’s throat too tight to speak. He nods and Dean’s thumb rubs against the inside of his wrist, reassuring. ”Rome says yes.”

”All right. Dean, you count ’em. I’m not moving on until you give me the go ahead.”

It’s a weird fucking way to build trust, and Roman’s a hairsbreadth away from balking when he looks up and meets Dean’s eyes. Dean looks _fascinated_ , at a lack of a better word, like he wants to see this, and that thought does something to Roman, replaces the ice in his belly with a fire that surges through his blood. When he releases a breath and relaxes Dean nods at Seth.

The strap hits him across the shoulders, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips. The loud crack of leather on flesh gets to him almost as much as the blow did. It smarts, but so does running the ropes, and this is a tingly kind of pain that leaves a pleasant heat in his wake. 

”One,” Dean says, and tightens his grip around Roman’s wrists for a moment, almost like a hug. 

Roman closes his eyes and exhales. As his shoulders drop the strap hits him again, this time a little lower, a little harder. The sound he makes is closer to a groan than anything else. His head is spinning. He wets his lips, blinking up to catch Dean’s gaze, and Dean’s delighted grin makes his heart beat faster.

”Two. He’s doing fine.”

The third and fourth blow seem to bypass pain and go straight to pleasure, and Roman’s digging his fingers into the cushion, fighting to keep from squirming, to keep from grinding against the couch. It’s maddening, Seth’s silence, Dean’s steady count. By the seventh blow, he’s no longer sure who’s holding the strap. Logically, he knows Seth’s right there, but Seth’s not speaking, and it’s Dean’s words and Dean’s expressions that control the speed and the strength of the blows. His whole back is burning, his blood buzzing, and the wait between each hit is killing him. 

He spaces out a little, maybe, because when Dean says ”ten” and leans forward to press a kiss to his white-knuckled fists, Roman gasps as much at the way the sunlight hits his hair as at the unexpected touch of his lips.

”Oh, wow.” Roman laughs and he doesn’t know why. 

Dean’s eyes are glittering. ”Good?”

”Yeah,” he breathes. "God. I don’t. Fuck.”

”You’re doing great. You’re fucking gorgeous.” Dean reaches up and pushes a sweaty strand of hair back from his face, before he settles back and resumes his grip around Roman’s wrists. ”More?”

”Yes. Harder. I want to feel-” He draws a shuddering breath, trying to find the right word for it. ”More."

Dean looks over his head. ”You’ve got something with a little more bite?”

There’s movement behind him and Seth must have made a suggestion, because Dean nods. ”Let’s try that. Hey, Rome? We’re going for something different. Let me know how it feels, okay?"

Whatever Seth is using this time is thin and sharp and horrible, and it feels like it slices right to the bone. There’s no pleasant thud, no buzz, just cruel, vicious pain, and he writhes away from it, almost tears free from Dean’s grip. It cuts straight through and shatters the warm, fuzzy haze, drawing tears to his eyes. 

”Whoa, okay, no more of that.” Dean tightens his grip, and rubs his thumb along Roman’s wrist as he struggles to catch his breath.

”It’s fine, I can-”

Dean shakes his head. ”Nope. Not gonna. Seth, something like what you used before, just… I dunno, more of it?”

Roman wants to insist that he can take it. That now that he knows what’s coming it can’t be that bad. But before he can figure out how to shape the words Seth has already put it down, whatever it was, and he’s rummaging through his box looking for something else. Dean lets go of Roman’s left wrist and brushes his knuckles against his cheek.

”You’re amazing.” There’s wonder in Dean’s voice, something uncharacteristically gentle. "So fucking brave. I can’t believe you’re letting us do this.”

Roman doesn't feel brave. He feels frustrated, mostly, hungry to be fucked, to be filled, but that’s not what this is about and he can jerk off in the shower afterwards. It won't be the first time. He turns his head towards the touch, leaning into it. Then Seth is back, has to be, because Dean withdraws his hand to pin him down again. Roman tenses up in anticipation.

"Hey," Dean says. "Deep breaths. C'mon. Breathe with me."

It's such a weird thing, Dean breathing him through the anxiety. There was a time not that long ago when he wasn’t sure he wanted Dean Ambrose in the ring with him, much less share a car or a room with him. He looked at Dean and saw barbed wire, screwdrivers, scar tissue, a flaring temper and crazy that went on for days, and he wasn’t entirely certain Dean wouldn’t stick a knife between Roman's ribs for looking at him the wrong way. And now. Now.

”Breathe,” Dean says, and he breathes, and there is nothing between them but the air they share, and little by little Roman feels himself relax. Finally he nods and is rewarded by a smile that can only be described as sweet.

”We’re ready.”

It’s a flogger, heavy and thick and glorious, the myriad of tails landing on his back with a resounding thud that knocks him forward against the couch, tearing a groan from his lips.

”Again,” Dean says.

There’s no count this time, no set number, just Dean measuring his reactions and giving him a chance to get his bearings before demanding more. It’s bliss. Again and again the flogger falls, crashing over him as heavy and implacable as the ocean, and if it weren’t for Dean’s hands anchoring him he’d get swept away. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Could be minutes, could be hours. His knees are aching by the time he feels Seth’s hands on this shoulders, lips against the side of his neck, and he realizes that if Dean’s there and Seth’s there, then no one’s holding the flogger, and it hits him like grief, that’s it’s already over. Then he’s being kissed, there are hands at his belt, working his fly open, and, oh.

Oh.

Maybe it’s not just him, after all.


End file.
